Inherit
by LadyKailitha
Summary: When cases dry up, it's up to John to pick up the slack working at the surgery. But when he gets sick and is out of sick days, it's up to Sherlock to find a solution to their money woes. He knows EXACTLY what to do, if only his pride would let him.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! No this isn't the final chapter of "A Shift in Priorities". Sorry about that. This was meant to be a warm up get my brain to focus on that story. And because my muse doesn't know what SHORT is, here is part one of what has stretched past the 5000 words mark.**

 **Part 2 is written and just needs to be edited and posted, which because Old Ping Hai is so freaking awesome, it'll be up tomorrow. Well, barring any unforeseen delays. And that ladies and gentlemen is how you know you've been working too long at a law firm, when you automatically try not to give guarantees.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

John stumbled blurry-eyed into the surgery. He had been off the past two days, but couldn't afford to take any more. He had used up the vast majority of his sick leave chasing after mad, consulting detectives. Not like he'd done that in a couple of months, but as it was nearing the end of the year, all his time had been used up and he was sick as a dog.

He managed to sneak past the ladies in reception, but before he could make it into his office, he was waylaid by his boss standing in front of him, arms folded in front of his chest. John looked up to see Dr Dillon Janzek glaring down at him.

Dillon was 6'4 and built like a tank. He did not look happy to John at all. "I thought I told you to take the week off, John," he growled.

John started coughing and Dillon led him away from the hall to John's office and into his own.

He sat John down in one of the big, cushioned armchairs and then made his way around his desk to his own chair.

"You can't be here, and you know why," Dillon said.

John sneezed fitfully and nodded. "I know," he rasped, "but I don't have any more paid leave, and I can't afford to miss another day."

"What happened to that detective gig you have on the side?" Dillon asked.

"I don't know," John said, burying his head in his hands. He dragged his hands over his face and sighed. "It seems all the clients we are getting nowadays bring us just piddling nothing cases that don't pay much, if anything. The Met is working on making Sherlock a paid consultant, but Greg isn't sure when that will go through."

"I guess the rich and famous aren't clamoring to be on that blog of yours," Dillon said with a wink.

"Oh, bloody ha," John murmured. "They know I can be discreet. I've done it before. I think it's more that Sherlock has turned down one too many 'my necklace is missing' and having it turn out to be pawned for gambling debts or given to the mistress. But Sherlock has been trying. He's been around to the Yard and his brother's office every day and that's when he's not calling them every five minutes."

John started coughing again, his body doubling over with the sheer pain.

"And that's just one of the reasons you can't be here, John," Dillon said with a frown. "You can't even make it through a speech like that without trying to cough up a lung on the floor. Can you imagine trying to diagnose somebody?"

John shook his head and then abruptly stopped when it made his head spin.

"Go home, John. I mean it. I don't want to see your face around here until you can speak five sentences without coughing, all right?"

John nodded and then pressed his hand to his head.

"I really am sorry this is happening to you, John. Honest."

"I know, thanks, Dillon," John said.

* * *

Sherlock had been in his mind palace since John snuck off to work. There was only one option left, but he didn't think he could go back to that. Running around the world chasing down the remnants of Moriarty's cell had taken a rather sizable chunk out of his soul, and he wasn't sure he could give any more. Plus that meant asking Mycroft for help.

His eyes flew open and his mouth formed an oh. "Oh!" He had been blind. There was another option. A better option. He really should have thought of it before. It was the perfect solution to their money woes.

Sherlock strolled into his room and hastily got dressed. He threw on his coat and gathered up his wallet, mobile phone, and keys. He was out the door before he could change his mind. This was the solution. He just had to have the guts to do it.

He hailed a taxi and then checked his watch before giving the cabbie directions.

Mycroft was in his office, standing over his desk getting ready to leave for the Diogenes, when Anthea poked her head in.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft questioned.

"Your brother is here to see you," she replied.

Mycroft blinked. Not only did Sherlock rarely come to his office (well, bar recently, when he had been harassing big brother for cases), but he usually just barged in without waiting to have himself announced.

"Really?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, sir. He says it's urgent."

Mycroft sat down hard on his chair. "Do send him in, won't you?"

Anthea nodded and closed the door behind her.

The next time the door opened, it revealed his brother. Gone was the worry and stress that had been plaguing Sherlock since the detective business had hit a slow patch. Before him was the East Wind, the man who would move heaven and hell to get what he wanted.

But he was being polite, which meant whatever it was, it lay with Mycroft to grant. And he would grant it. Mycroft didn't care if it was to bomb half of the western bloc; if it meant seeing his brother like this again, he'd do it.

None of this showed on his face, of course. "To what do I owe this pleasure, brother mine?"

Sherlock tossed his hair out of his face and shoved his hands into his pockets. "As per the agreement in the written trust, I am here in person to ask for the release of the sum owed to me as set up by our parents."

Mycroft blinked. "Oh."

It was such a simple request. One that wasn't dangerous or outrageous. But one that took a major hit to Sherlock's pride.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he watched Mycroft's face for tells, but his brother's face was a mask.

"It was either this or work for you again, and I-" Sherlock bit off the last word.

Mycroft nodded. He didn't want that for his brother, not anymore. Not after what it did to Sherlock.

"Done."

Sherlock's lip quivered. "I-"

"As in, you will have access to your trust fund, Sherlock," Mycroft clarified.

Sherlock dropped into a chair in relief. He nodded.

Mycroft wrote a series of numbers on a slip of paper and stood up. "Are you aware of how much is in there?"

"If I've done the math correctly, somewhere around three-quarters of a million pounds," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft chuckled. "Only if you include interest."

Sherlock frowned. "What else would I include, Mycroft?"

"I have been investing it for you for years. You now have something closer to around four million."

Sherlock stuck out his lip and cocked his head. "Well."

"Yes, you know my skill set, Sherlock. You are the best at mass connections in a small amount of data, I am the best at finding details in a mass of information. Imagine what I could do with the stock market if I wasn't a government man."

Sherlock chuckled. "Just how many off-shore accounts _do_ you have, Mycroft?"

Mycroft just smiled tightly. "There is one thing you need to know. You are only allowed to take out a thousand pounds per thirty days."

Sherlock gulped. "That..that won't be enough. We are several months behind on all our bills, with everything we could scrape up going to rent or food."

"I said that's how much you could withdraw, Sherlock. There is no spending limit using a card."

Sherlock nodded tightly. "I just hope the thousand will be enough to stave them off until I get the card issued."

"It will be expedited, of course. And I would give them access to the account until you get the card and swap the payment method. I suspect that what they want will barely put a dent in the interest. But still, take out the thousand for other things like food and rent."

Sherlock's lip quivered again, this time in relief. Yes, he and John would be okay now.

Mycroft walked to stand over his brother, holding out the paper. Sherlock took it and put in his inside breast pocket.

He stood up and took Mycroft in his arms. Mycroft returned the hug with a fierceness that only older siblings had for their younger siblings.

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed.

"I didn't do anything," Mycroft chuckled.

"You could have made it difficult for me. Asked what the money was for, questioned my motives," Sherlock whispered.

"I knew why, Sherlock, it's because you love him and would do whatever it took to make him happy."

"I do, more than anything."

"Go."

Sherlock nodded and slipped out of the office. Mycroft slumped against the front of his desk. John Watson had done the impossible. He had been the making of his brother. He had taken a great man and made him a good one.

Mycroft's phone pinged in his pocket and he pulled it out to read the message. He chuckled and then typed out his reply. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Mycroft stood up. He had work to do if the transfer of Sherlock's trust fund was to go smoothly. He felt lighter than he had in months. Today was a good day.

* * *

John walked out of Dillon's office, wondering how he was going to get home. He barely had enough money to take the Tube, but didn't think he'd be able to withstand the morning crowds still bustling about.

He walked by a pretty brunette and then turned back. "Anthea?" he croaked.

"Hello, John." She smiled at him before shooting off a message on her Blackberry. "I've come to take you home."

John blinked at her for at least a minute, bleary-eyed. He coughed into his sleeve and away from her. When he looked up, she was giving him that pitying look she had down to an art.

"Come on, then," she said slowly, as if talking to a small child.

John followed behind, still not sure what was going on. He ducked into the car when she held open the door, her nose still buried in her Blackberry.

She closed the door behind him, and he rolled down the window. "Why is Mycroft doing this?"

"Who said that Mycroft set this up?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Well, you're here, for one," John rasped, before turning to sneeze into his handkerchief.

"Oh, John, Mycroft wouldn't do this for _you_."

John blinked, his head achy and foggy. "Sherlock?"

She just smiled. "Good-bye, John."

Once back at Baker Street, the driver helped him up the stairs and into his flat. John stumbled to the sofa and pulled the tattered afghan over himself before he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock bounded up the stairs quickly and quietly, deftly avoiding the stairs that creaked. He opened the door and found, that as expected, John had crashed on the sofa. He dashed up to John's room and got the doctor's thick duvet and pillow. He brought them downstairs and made John as comfortable as possible.

He then tore through the kitchen, jotting down brands that they used for the basic items and making a list of what they needed. Next he flew down to the ground floor and knocked on 221A.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked, but was bustled aside as Sherlock made his way inside her flat.

"I need your help," he explained, as she twittered at his lack of manners.

"I'm not qualified for that, dear," she murmured.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "With John."

"Oh, well, I think you should just come out and tell him how you feel," Mrs Hudson said, putting a finger to the side of her mouth.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused and then waved the comment away. "Not about that, Mrs Hudson. John is sick and I know next to nothing about taking of someone else."

"Oh!"

Mrs Hudson sat him down and went over the things that he would need to do, what he would need to get at the shops, and how patient he would need to be. Sherlock absorbed it all, drinking in every facet of information he could squeeze from her.

She added to his list and then sent him off to the shops.

He walked out of 221 and saw a black sedan waiting for for him. Sherlock sought out the nearest CCTV and mouthed the words 'thank you.'

He got into the car and directed the driver to the first set of shops he needed to visit.

Returning almost three hours later, he made a few trips to take all his bags and packages up to the flat, even with the help of the driver.

Sherlock scurried around the rooms, putting away the food and medicine, setting up the humidifier he had bought and placing it near John, and getting John's sleep clothes. He started the chicken noodle soup he had harassed his mother for and then knelt next to the doctor.

"John," Sherlock said, gently shaking his friend.

John opened his eyes and muttered, "Oh god, what, Sherlock?"

"You can't sleep in your work things," Sherlock explained.

John looked down only to be met with his duvet. He tried to pry it off him, but he was a weak as a kitten.

Sherlock moved it and the afghan, then helped John sit up. Sherlock got John out of his work clothes and into his pajamas. He then lay John back down.

"Sherlock?" John had enough sense to inquire.

Sherlock shook his head, "Just rest, I've got you."

A small smile graced the doctor's lips and as he drifted off to sleep, he murmured, "I love you."

Sherlock stood up and pressed his hand to his chest to ease the small ache that formed there.

File that under one more thing that John has said that he didn't mean the way Sherlock would have preferred.

A couple hours later, Sherlock roused John for the soup, a cup of peppermint tea, and a trip to the bathroom, as well as medicine.

But even that much exhausted John, and soon he was out again.

And the next few days followed that pattern.

* * *

John couldn't remember much of the past couple of days, but he remember a whispered plea from Greg and Sherlock's insistence that he couldn't leave John.

"Shit, Sherlock, this is the fourth victim in five days!" Greg's voice nearly cracked at his fight to keep his voice down.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock shake his head. "I can't."

"He won't need you for a couple of hours, he's asleep for fuck's sake!" Greg pleaded. "I need to stop this guy before he slaughters half the population of Brixton!"

John watched as Sherlock stared at the floor, completely torn. John wanted to tell him to go. To find this bastard. John would keep.

"Give me everything you've got. Bring it all here to Baker Street. I'll do what I can from here."

Greg threw his arms up in frustration. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to budge from John's side.

"You could always ask Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. John had to strain to make sure he had heard him correctly.

"Fine." Greg stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

The next time he was conscious enough to be aware of his surroundings, he found Sherlock on his own laptop, reading.

John stirred and suddenly Sherlock was by his side. A cool hand touched John's forehead, neck, and cheek.

"Your fever seems to have broken," Sherlock murmured.

John nodded and sighed in relief when doing so didn't make him wince.

"How long was I out?" John asked, struggling to sit up. Again, Sherlock was there to help.

"Three days."

"Shit!" John swore. He then looked around, the flat was relatively clean for them, he could smell food cooking in the kitchen, and Sherlock's chemistry set had been cleared away.

He took a deep breath and realized that his lungs felt clear, too. He spotted the humidifier and frowned.

"Where did you get that?"

"I bought it, I thought it might help," Sherlock admitted with a shrug.

"Sherlock..." John said and then trailed off. "Oh, wait did you have a case when I was out sick? I think I remember Greg coming by."

Sherlock shook his head, "I couldn't leave you. So I directed him to Mycroft. I hear they got along swimmingly."

"I vaguely remember that." John rubbed his face wearily. He took deep breath and let it out slowly.

"So where did you get the money for the humidifier or the food I know you've been feeding me, for that matter." John lifted his arm and took a whiff. He made a face, which startled a laugh from Sherlock.

"I'll suspect you'll want a shower," Sherlock said, side-stepping the question. "Go, I'll grab you some clothes to change into."

John's eyes narrowed. "Don't think I don't know what you are doing. I want answers when I get out."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Of course, John."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here it is my darlings, the conclusion to our lovely story. I hope it lives up to the expectations.**

 **Thank you to the wonderful Old Ping Hai, who has been super patient in me not finishing up Shift, so that I can begin working on her favorite AU, ballet!lock and rugby!John.**

* * *

Sherlock started making breakfast while John showered, it was better than pacing the floor. He decided to make crepes as they would be both light and filling.

He was adding the sauce over the top of the finished ones, when John came stumbling out in his clean pajamas.

"That smells divine, Sherlock," he said, sitting down at the table. "I didn't know you could cook."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's simple chemistry, John. Once you understand that, it becomes very easy. That Alton fellow is quite clever."

John blinked. "You learned how to cook watching reruns of 'Good Eats'?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

John took a bite and moaned. "Very good, Sherlock! Does this mean we'll be eating less takeaway?"

Sherlock smiled. "Perhaps; hard to cook while my mind is elsewhere, like on a case, though."

John shook his head. "You could have taken that case, you know. Greg's right. I would have been fine for a couple of hours."

Sherlock shook his head. "It took Mycroft two days to figure it out. Though, he may have been prolonging his time with Greg."

"Wait, you mean...?"

Sherlock chuckled. "My best matchmaking, yet."

"Cheers!" John said, raising his fork to Sherlock. "Won't that mean less cases for you, though?" John added, with a frown.

"No. It means that my status as a paid consultant occurs faster and I won't just be working with Greg. It will mean that any DI or Sergeant can contact me if they think they need me."

John blinked. "So, what; did you borrow money from Mycroft until the paid consultant thing comes through?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You may want to finish that before I tell you. I don't want you to choke."

John looked down at his crepes and sighed. He was almost done, so he finished them up as quickly as he could. When he was finished, he pushed the plate away and clasped his hands in front on him on the table.

"You weren't far off the mark that Mycroft was involved. But not the way you thought." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Did you ever wonder why Mike needed to introduce us in the first place? Despite the fact that my clothes and everything else about me screamed monied?"

John opened his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and then furrowed them. "It never occurred to me."

"I have accounts in several Savile Row establishments that pull directly from my trust fund. A trust fund that until three days ago, I didn't have access to."

"Why not?"

"It's time for a little history lesson in the life of one William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I entered uni at a young age. Younger than what is average, in any case. The trust fund was set up so that I could only receive it if I had completed a degree. They didn't care what. Art history, English lit., or even apiology for all they cared. As long as it was something.

"Being that young and smarter than the vast majority of the students and even the faculty, wasn't easy. Despite what Sebastian said, I did have friends. Well, one. His name was Victor Trevor. His dog bit me."

John chuckled. "I'm sure there are less painful ways to befriend someone."

Sherlock smiled wanly. "We can't all have handy old friends willing to introduce us to wild eccentrics."

John grinned, "I suppose not."

"Well, it only lasted until that summer. I went out to his father's place. His father heard about what I do with the deductions. After much goading on both their parts, I caved in and deduced Mr Trevor."

John winced. "I take it went over like a lead balloon?"

Sherlock buried his hands on his lap. "I found that he had made his money illegally in Australia."

"Whoops!"

"Indeed. After that Mr Trevor's health declined and the past came back to bite him in the arse. Victor believed that if I had left it alone, his father would still be alive today. He ran off to India, last I heard. But he never spoke to me again."

John cringed. "Shit, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "It put me in a bad place. So in my attempt to appear normal, I started doing drugs. To slow my brain to match those around me."

"Did you end up getting your degree?"

Sherlock scoffed. "But barely. At that point my parents had become aware of the habit, and they wrote a new clause into the trust fund. I would have to show up in person to my brother and formally request access to the trust."

"Effectively making sure you wouldn't ask until the relationship between you two had improved. How big of a fit did you pitch when you found out?" John asked with a knowing smile.

"I believe they had to have someone come in and repair the damage afterwards."

John chuckled, "Sounds about right. So that's what you did then, you asked Mycroft for the trust fund?"

Sherlock nodded. "We needed the money and what's a little hit to my pride when it will make our lives that much easier? I've caught us up on all the bills and set up to have them paid automatically. Same goes for Mrs Hudson. The rent will deposit on the first of every month in her bank account."

"Well, then. Good job, Sherlock," John said, beaming up at his friend.

Sherlock ducked his head, but he couldn't hide the pleased smile that spread across his face. "We should be getting cards for both of us in the mail in the next couple of days," he concluded.

John nodded, his face contorting as he tried not to cry. "Thank you." He stood up and buried his head into Sherlock's neck, throwing his arms around his friend.

"We won't want for anything for a really long time. And if we keep to the modest living we're used to, it will last us our whole lives," Sherlock murmured into John's shoulder.

John straightened up, "Just how much is in there?"

"When I was twenty, it had £100,000 in it," Sherlock hedged.

"Which was nearly twenty years ago. So at least three times that?"

"Something like that," Sherlock said with a smile.

* * *

Greg decided to take John out for drinks to make up for being a bastard when he was sick. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to leave John's side, but had gotten so desperate that he hadn't cared that John was so ill that he had barely moved from the sofa the whole time.

And then Sherlock gave him two alternatives. Send Sherlock everything they had and hope to hell the detective could solve it from his armchair while taking care of John, or go to the other Holmes brother and ask him to help. He had thought briefly about just sending everything to Sherlock, but when he turned around to close the door behind him, he saw Sherlock tenderly holding John's head up while he administered the medication.

Greg had gone straight from Baker Street to the Diogenes. After he had explained why Sherlock wouldn't- couldn't help him, Mycroft was on his feet and pulling on his coat, ordering Greg to tell him everything on the way over.

As much of a speed reader Mycroft was, he still had five cases to go through. Well, six by the time they caught the bastard. That had infuriated the elder Holmes so badly that upon catching the murderer, Mycroft had actually hit him. Full on fist to the face, no less. Greg had been impressed. Especially when the suspect had cried police brutality.

Mycroft had leaned forward and said into the man's ear, "I'm not the police, and if I didn't believe in Gregory Lestrade and his team, I would throw you someplace that no one would ever find you again."

The man blanched and meekly let Sally take him away. Greg should have kissed him right then and there. At least he had gotten a date out of the ordeal.

He had actually offered to take Sherlock out first. Considering that it was the lanky detective that had put Mycroft in his path, but Sherlock had turned him down. He didn't do well in places like that. He had suffered through for John's stag do, but no. It was not something he enjoyed.

Greg had relented and told him that he would find some juicy unsolved murders for him instead. That pleased Sherlock. Just then John had come down the stairs and Greg had turned around and invited John out for drinks.

John lit up and readily agreed. Which is how they had gotten to this. Freezing their arses off at the closest ATM, as John tried his new card to get cash out.

"It's a good thing we asked, _before_ we started ordering drinks," Greg groused. "Who knew that the local had stopped taking cards."

"Seriously," John agreed. "I mean, I was really looking forward to flashing that card around." He put it in the machine and pulled it out again.

Greg pulled it out John's hand, "Let me see that!" His eyes bulged as he looked at the black card. "Christ! Just how much is on this thing?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock said something in the six digit range."

Greg let out a low whistle.

John gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"What? Did the bastard over-estimate the amount?"

John shook his head and pointed at the screen. Greg leaned over and his jaw dropped.

"That's seven digits, John," Greg said, overstating the obvious.

"Christ, live modestly, my arse!" John cursed.

The Detective Inspector raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Sherlock told me that if we lived modestly like we've been doing, then this money would last us our entire lives."

Greg chuckled. "In London, actually having to buy a place, instead of stealing from that landlady of yours, he'd be right. He probably didn't want you to freak out over how much was in there."

"Consider me freaked out. Christ! But then when you're a Holmes, this must seem so small."

"John, it's not that and you know it. It's more that they are brilliant. Think about it, Mycroft must have invested the money for Sherlock and got it to that level. And if that's what happened, I bet it was a shock to Sherlock, too."

John sighed. "Right. You're right." He squared his shoulders and pulled out forty quid. "Let's go have a good time and I'll talk to Sherlock about it when I get home."

Later, when they were on their third round, John brought the subject up again.

"I'm going to have to keep working at the surgery, otherwise people will say I'm a kept man," John grumbled into his pint.

Greg rolled his eyes. "No one need know. As long you two don't suddenly start spending money like there is no tomorrow, people aren't going to notice or care."

"They'll notice if I quit my job," John snapped back.

Greg swirled his beer a bit before taking a drink. "Why? You've gone jobless before living with Sherlock and no one has said that."

John's head shot up. "Oh. Right."

"You're looking at this the wrong way. He did this because he saw that you were working yourself to bone to make sure the two of you were okay, and so he wanted to return the favor. For Christ's sake, let him!"

"I know, it's just that he's done so much for me, I'll never be able to repay him."

Greg snorted.

"What?"

"You could just date him," Greg said innocently around his pint to hide his smile.

John choked on the swallow of beer that he had been drinking, his eyes wide.

"That's-uh...he wouldn't- would he?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Go snog the hell out of him before the both of you perish from pining," Greg growled.

John threw down £20 and dashed for the door. Greg looked at the jacket he'd left behind and followed at a slower pace. He had barely gotten to the door when John burst through it again. He took the jacket from Greg with a murmured apology and then was back out into the night.

Greg shook his head. He pulled out his mobile and dialed.

"Hey, Mycroft," he said when the other person had picked up.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted.

"I told you you could call me Greg," Greg replied.

"Gregory, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I was out at the pub but the other person bailed on me and I was wondering if you would like to join me for drinks instead?"

"Hmm..." Mycroft said. "I'll do you one better, why don't I send a car around and you can help me finish off this bottle of Scotch?"

Greg licked his lips. That was a much better idea. "Done."

"May I ask who would be foolish enough to leave you high and dry?" Mycroft purred into his ear.

"Let's just say you should stay away from Baker Street for a few days," Greg said, chuckling.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, unless you want to get an eyeful."

Mycroft's smirk could be felt over the line. "No, thank you."

"Yeah, I thought not," Greg said, his grin mischievous. "Although, I think I have a couple ideas of what you could with that time instead."

"I'd be more than happy to hear them once you've stepped into the car."

Greg looked up just as a black sedan pulled to the curb. Greg chuckled. "You are a sneaky bastard, aren't you?"

"Where do you think Sherlock learned it from?"

Greg outright laughed as he slipped into the back seat of the car that would take him to Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock wrung his hands as he paced back and forth. He should have gone with them. What if John found out how much was really in the account? Would he be angry, upset, thrilled? With John it was really hard to tell. John always surprised him.

Like him coming home early, apparently. It wasn't so early that he and Greg never made it out for drinks, but far too early to have been the night out that they planned.

John threw open the door and stared at a startled Sherlock like he was the most wonderful thing in the world.

Sherlock could barely draw in breath before John was crossing the floor to stand next to him.

"You're in love with me?" John asked, breathless.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he nodded.

John cupped his cheek and then reached around to grab the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock gasped and clutched John's jacket in his fists. John pulled Sherlock down to his level, panting close to the detective's mouth. Sherlock's heart rate skyrocketed as a swooping feeling entered his stomach. Then their lips were touching and suddenly Sherlock was flying.

Sherlock pushed the jacket off John's shoulders and after a brief struggle of limbs, it was on the floor. The whole time, their mouths kept seeking the other's, as if they couldn't bare to be apart for long.

Sherlock's robe followed John's jacket to the floor as hands sought out skin. Shirts were rucked up and removed. Fingers trailed on the bands of their trousers, seeking what lay beneath.

They broke off the kiss for one startling moment. "I love you, too, you mad git," John said fondly.

"John," Sherlock breathed out like a sigh. They stumbled through the kitchen and into Sherlock's room, the remainder of their clothes leaving a trail behind them.

"You gorgeous, gorgeous thing, I love you so much," John gasped as Sherlock proceeded to take him apart.

Sherlock's long fingers sought thighs, and skidded across abs. His lips pressed against ribs, and the neck. All John could do is hold on to Sherlock's shoulders for support.

Finally the friction he so desperately wished for was happening. Kisses turned into purple bruises, nails leaving lines of red, fingers grasping as they frotted against each other. John couldn't hold back anymore and screamed his release. Sherlock panted heavily as he chased his own high. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and together they brought him to his climax.

Sherlock rolled off John and flopped on to the bed next to him. John settled on his side, his hand propping up his head as he looked down at the detective. Using his spare hand, he began tracing patterns on Sherlock's chest with his finger.

"That was amazing," John said.

Sherlock cocked a eyebrow. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

John fell over laughing and Sherlock followed, reclining next to John, almost draped over his lover.

"Do you want me to stop?" John asked, staring up at his lover.

"No. It's...fine," Sherlock murmured before dipping down to kiss him.

"You are completely mad, Sherlock Holmes," John said, pulling Sherlock down on top of him, "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock cuddled into John's chest. "Good."


End file.
